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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23017555">The King of Winter's Sister</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightAsteria/pseuds/StarlightAsteria'>StarlightAsteria</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Song of Ice and Fire &amp; Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Fae, Embroidery, F/M, Lannisters are Summer Fae, Magic, Robb doesn't exchange Sansa for Jaime, Sansa is an enchantress and she has the hidden fairytale castle to match, Starks are Winter Fae, heavily inspired by Arthurian romances, this has consequences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 11:41:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,779</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23017555</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightAsteria/pseuds/StarlightAsteria</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>you are not your sister, and I am not my brother<br/>that is why</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sansa frees herself, and, somewhat unexpectedly, frees Jaime too in the process</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jaime Lannister &amp; Tywin Lannister, Jaime Lannister/Sansa Stark, Roslin Frey/Robb Stark, Talisa Maegyr/Robb Stark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>80</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>390</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Fleur's Beloved fics</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The King of Winter's Sister</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hey everyone! </p>
<p>I've had this story written for a while now - I was digging around in my writing folder today, trying to find you lovely Jaimsa people a present, to say thank you for being so patient and supportive with me whilst I work on TINTB and my other writing projects. I fully realise that I'm not the fastest writer in the world, but I do work really hard on these stories, especially TINTB, and I hope that comes across, at least a little. Your encouragement and continued enthusiasm mean so much to me, and I assure you I don't at all take it for granted. </p>
<p>If you're still with me, I'm very grateful, and I hope you enjoy this one-shot! (I know! a one-shot, from me! LOL) </p>
<p>Anyway, enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>you are not your sister, and I am not my brother</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>that is why</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Tywin of House Lannister, King of the Summer Court, is stunned into disbelieving silence by the sight of a white-cloaked figure, face shadowed, lounging in his chair as he enters his solar, wearied by another day hearing petitions and debating the movements of his armies, and, more unpleasantly, reining in his daughter’s cruelty. The difficult balance between the sheer <em>necessity </em>of having to intervene in his daughter’s rulings when she is not only of an age to make her own decisions and the humiliation of having to issue these corrections during the public dawn petitions leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The figure is unperturbed by his entrance, and does not startle even at the harsh, low sound of Tywin’s voice. “Who are you, and how did you get into my private solar?” His guards are outside, patrolling the corridors, and they have alerted him to nothing; there has been no break-in, no signs of a struggle, and yet there is an intruder, here, waiting for him. It is a most unsettling turn of events, but something - though he knows not what, precisely - something stops him from reaching for the weapon at his waist, something stops him from striding towards the figure and tearing back the hood of the cloak and using the Lannister <em>mesmer </em>to compel this intruder to answer him, by the gods, to give him the information he seeks. Some sort of intuition, some sense that caution is best exercised. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The figure stands, fluidly, with a lithe elegance born of natural grace instead of practice, and slim, pale, dainty hands move to lower the hood of the cloak, revealing someone he could never have imagined seeing at all, much less at his own court - it makes no sense. She has cold blue eyes the colour of a clear northern sky and long waves of russet hair, the colour so vivid and bright it verily gleams. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Sansa Stark,” he breathes eventually, brows drawing together in aggravated consternation. Younger sister to the King of the Winter Court, held captive for near on a century by Tywin’s own daughter Cersei, and now, from her height and the sharpness of her cheekbones, apparently full-grown, no longer a child. The same Sansa Stark who has been missing since the Winter Solstice two years previously. Rumours of her escape from Cersei’s cruel court had ranged from the young faery killing all her guards, bathing in their blood and disappearing in a puff of smoke to her exercising the shapeshifting skill of her wintry people and transforming herself into a wolf the size of a horse and loping from the palace unchallenged. Tywin had been on the battlefield at the time, attempting to bring the Winter King Robb Stark to some sort of parley, barring beating him senseless in the arena of war, and had not concerned himself with the way his daughter had decided to treat her prisoner; an oversight he now sees to have been grievous indeed, judging by the considering, impassive gaze Sansa Stark now levels at him. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>His uninvited guest inclines her head in acknowledgement, but remains silent.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Tywin’s gaze narrows, curiosity overriding his irritation. “Are you here to kill me?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>That garners a reaction, though it is not one he could have anticipated. She laughs; a rich curl of amusement escapes her lips. “Hardly that, Sire - I am no killer,” she replies evenly, a soothing, musical lilt to her words, and he suddenly wonders if she has an ability akin to the Lannister <em>mesmer, </em>but with her words, not her mind. He shakes his head to clear it of such disconcerting thoughts. It is late, and he is tired, weary of this infernal court which he rules - he must be, to be considering seriously the ridiculous notion that this slip of a girl is a match in power and wit for him, Tywin Lannister the King of the Summer Court.  </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He needs wine, he decides, striding over to the sideboard and pouring himself a glass of the rich crimson liquid, draining it in a swift, single movement before belatedly remembering his manners and offering some to his <em>guest. </em>She declines with a smiling shake of her head. “To seduce me then? Blackmail me?” He retorts harshly. “I warn you now; you will fail.” Though he does admire her courage in returning to the lion’s den, as it were, begrudgingly admitting to himself that in his many centuries of existence, he has rarely seen its like; and it is all the more surprising coming from one such as the lady before him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“My intentions could not be further from that,” she answers, her composure icily intact.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh?” he raises an eyebrow, skeptical, stalking closer until his desk is the only thing separating them, and he leans upon the wood, hands braced, staring imperiously down at her. “And what, then, are your intentions? Do you care to enlighten me?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I want an end to this senseless war,” she elaborates, her voice still holding that peculiar softness that Tywin cannot help but mistrust. “A century of bloodshed has brought us nowhere, except closer to ruin, Summer and Winter courts alike, and I would end it. Do you not want an end to the bloodshed of your people, Sire?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I do,” he bites out. Of course he does. What King worth his salt does not? “But neither shall I allow the insult your kin dealt to me and mine to go unchallenged. <em>We did not kill your father, Ned Stark, the late King of Winter.</em> Neither shall I allow my son, my <em>heir </em>to languish for all eternity in your dungeons.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“And if I could persuade my kin to throw down arms? If I could return your son to you?” she continues, undaunted. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You? You!” he laughs coldly, incredulously, before her second question settles in his mind and stills it utterly. His son? <em>Jaime? </em>Jaime who was lured into an ambuscade by the King of Winter (oh, he bitterly acknowledges the irony, of course - Ned Stark was killed in an ambush supposedly conducted by soldiers from the Summer Court under Tywin’s command, no matter how much he denies it - and so for his son to be taken from him in the same way, it rankles like a festering wound) and captured and languishes even now in the cold dungeons far, far to the North. “And how do you propose to return my son to me?” If she is toying with him, he will rain down such fury the likes of which the Winter Court has never seen - he will make the past century seem like child’s play. But he cannot see how this young faery might be telling the truth - how she might succeed where he, an experienced monarch and strategist and god of carnage upon the battlefield has failed - and it infuriates him. “If you think me fool enough to fall for such an obvious gambit - ” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I am not toying with you - I know better than to raise in another false hopes of a reunion with a loved one, Sire,” she says, and it is the note of underlying bitterness that speaks of shattered dreams that makes him pause, that makes him wonder. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Will you enlighten me?” he asks again, gesturing sardonically whilst attempting to keep his voice harsh, attempting to quell the treacherous hope rising like the morning sun in his chest, warm and life-giving. If the flicker in the Winter faery’s eyes is any indication, he has failed abysmally and fury lances, white-hot like a summer thunderstorm, through his veins.   </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“She does not need to.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Tywin whirls around, scarcely able to understand that which his ears are telling him. He is being deceived; he is going mad but he <em>recognises </em>that voice. He can only gape, his knuckles white and shaking, gripping the edges of his desk, the only thing holding him upright. His son, after so long, it is his son who stands in front of him, lowering the hood of his cloak, as tall and as proud as Tywin remembers; but the glint in Jaime’s eyes is different, telling of suffering and loneliness and the sorrow he recognises in himself, as much as he denies it, ignores it, shoves it down and away, only to be considered when he has retired alone in the dead of night, when he allows the memories of gold and sunlight and laughter (<em>oh, Joanna) </em>to be examined. His son’s white cloak is the same curious material as Sansa Stark’s, shimmering and moving like water or liquid silver. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“How?” Tywin gasps desperately. “How? My son?” He rounds suddenly upon the lady. “If this is a trick-” he snarls.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“No trick, Father,” his son replies boldly. “It is truly me.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Tywin steps forward cautiously, fists clenched to hide the trembling of his fingers, closer to his son, his son who watches him warily, but who makes no move away from him. Tywin, when his son is naught but an arm’s length away, extends a shaking hand to touch Jaime’s cheek. He blinks when skin and bone meets him instead of a mirage, and his hand firms to grasp his son’s nape in a familiar gesture, and yes, he recognises this. The shape of his son’s eyes, as his queen’s, but the colour his, the flashing emerald of the summer forest, the strong jaw, the straight nose, yes, Tywin recognises this. He only becomes aware that he is chanting the words <em>my son, my son, my son</em> as he pulls Jaime into an embrace, his heir stiff with surprise at first before sinking wearily into the contact. His throat is clogged and he struggles to speak, but Jaime’s arms are strong around his King’s shoulders and that is when it really sinks in: Tywin’s son is returned to him, at last, at long last. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>And somehow, he owes it to Sansa Stark. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The notion makes him stiffen and raise his head to look at the lady, who meets his gaze more softly than before. This surprises him, his brows drawing together.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“How?” he asks, stepping <em>(reluctantly - though he would never admit it) </em>away from his son, his heir who has been returned to him at last, more pleased than he can comprehend that his voice has regained its habitual stern tone. “How is this possible?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He does not expect his son to throw Sansa Stark a playful glance. “Shall you explain or shall I?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Tywin observes the way the King of Winter’s sister smiles in return, something softer, tender, even private in her expression, and his gaze flits between the two of them, somehow sensing that this explanation will try his patience. “Sit, both of you,” he orders, pouring himself another glass of wine and draining it in a single movement, attempting to regain control of the situation, and he settles himself opposite them, leaning back in the leather-covered chair with mingled curiosity and unease, “and explain how on earth my son has returned to me, and at the hand of Sansa Stark, no less.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sansa Stark’s brows draw together as she begins to speak, her voice as even as ever, and Tywin begins to understand that her composure has been honed by the cruelty and torture inflicted upon her by his daughter. “Did it not once ever occur to you, Sire, that you and your daughter saw of me what I wished you to see?” The blue of her eyes turns from sea-blue to the winter ice itself, and she looks, almost vaguely, at where her pale hands rest upon the table. “Oh, I was naive enough at first, but my father’s murder and your daughter’s actions soon cured me of <em>that. </em>But merely because I am polite does not mean I am incapable of feeling hatred. I am gentle, so I must be weak, your daughter believes. I do not fault her for such an impression; after all, even my own kin have always thought me too tender-hearted, too trusting to have the iron and ice in my veins that my people have, too willing to believe the good of people to have winter bronze in my heart. But because I spoke only in courtesies and platitudes I was believed without a single thought of my own in my head. Because I spent hours upon hours sewing or reading or playing the lyre and the high harp I was believed dull and insipid and stupid. Those were the conclusions your daughter drew, entirely dismissing me as a threat, completely ignoring the fact that my actions were my best chance for survival, my best chance at biding my time in order to construct a successful plan of escape, which I did.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Tywin closes his eyes in consternation. He is never taking Cersei’s word for <em>anything </em>ever again. Sighing, he asks the natural follow-up question. “How, then, did you escape my daughter’s palace? By all reports she had you exceedingly well guarded.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“And exceedingly well beaten by said guards,” the lady retorts heatedly, and there is his glimpse of the person she is beneath her courtly mask, he thinks. He does not doubt that she hates his daughter with every fibre of her being. More unexpected is his son’s reaction; Jaime looks ready to jump into the fray himself, and with a chilling certainty he knows that his son would not hesitate to fight anyone, including his father, including his sister, upon Sansa Stark’s behalf, and once again he wonders what has happened between the two of them that makes their reactions to each other so extreme as this. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Because he feels compelled to offer this Stark something (<em>strange, so entirely strange when the Winter and Summer courts have been enemies for so long that none can recall the exact reasoning for the conflict’s initial beginning in the first place, centuries and centuries and centuries ago</em>), he says, in a tone that strangely, awkwardly, seems almost apologetic, “Cersei’s predilection for such senseless cruelty troubles me, I admit. I restrict her where I can.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sansa Stark inclines her head in acknowledgement, before a mischievous, even satisfied, lift of her lips abruptly makes her seem her real age instead of the seasoned diplomat that she is so careful to portray. “No doubt there have been many rumours of the nature of my escape.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Indeed there have been,” Tywin responds. He is curious, desperately curious (how did she outwit Cersei, more to the point) but he restrains himself.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She raises an eyebrow in challenge. “And if I am inclined to keep my secrets?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Then you must keep your secrets,” he returns smoothly, “but I <em>will </em>know how my son was returned to me.” She blinks, and he sees he has surprised her. Pressing his advantage, he continues. “Perhaps we might begin with the tale of how both of you were able to get into my chambers unseen by anyone tonight, and how I was unaware of Jaime’s presence until he decided to reveal himself to me.” His tone is firm enough to indicate that he will brook no opposition, not in this matter, and the Winter faery inclines her head in consent. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“As a young girl I was fascinated by books, legends, histories - I devoured them all. No matter the language, I set myself the task of learning them.” Her eyes flash with amusement. “Including those old tales written in runes instead of glyphs.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It takes him far longer than he would like to make the connection, and he grimly blames the absurdity of the situation instead of the way his daughter’s idiotic actions more than continuously try his patience. “You are an enchantress?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A pretty sort of smile tugs at her lips, deceptively girlish. “If you are asking me whether I am able to sew runes into cloth, paint them into metal, trace them into stone and imbue them with the power they spell out, then my answer would be yes, I am. If you are asking me whether I have my people’s ability to shape-shift into animal form, various animal forms, then yes I do.” Her grin widens, incongruous with the serious tone of her voice. “If, however, you are asking me whether I have the power to bring down these walls upon us and kill you where you sit, then I must regret to say that I do not.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He blinks, taking a moment to absorb this little speech, absently noting the way his son swallows his smirk. “Your cloaks, then?” He’d noticed the strange material, the shimmering, subtle pattern-work. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Precisely.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He leans back in his chair, considering her carefully. She gives nothing away. “Fashioning such a garment for your own escape I can understand, but accompanying my son here? Giving him a cloak made of your own hand and how, more exactly <em>why, </em>you are involved in my son’s escape, that is yet unclear, and I will have an answer.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>two years earlier</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>With a shaky sigh of satisfaction, Sansa Stark leans back against the back of her chair (<em>a simple affair of carved wood and eloquent enough of the truth of her position - a political prisoner, a hostage in this war between the Winter and Summer courts instead of the valued guest she’d been prior to the outbreak of hostilities nigh on a century before</em>) and ties off the last thread, gently setting down her needle into her sewing kit upon the low table in front of her. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The full, cold moon of the Winter Solstice rises slowly in the sky beyond the thick walls of her small suite of rooms in the Summer Palace, but her candles remain unlit, as they have remained unlit throughout the entirety of her long imprisonment. She learnt early on that any sort of light past dusk was like to invite questions and beatings, so she perforce has become quite the proficient at sewing in the dark. In any case, under the white light of a solstice moon she has more than enough light to see by.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Draped over her lap is the second of her cloaks, the cloth long enough to sweep the flagstones behind her, or to obscure a horse’s flanks, as the case might be, and at long last, tonight her task is complete. It has taken her years to secret away a bobbin of thread here, another there, enough to embroider her only two cloaks with all the protective runes she can think of. Runes for silent footsteps, for the shadows to wrap themselves around her person and hide her, runes for the triggering of a memory lapse in those she might step around so that even an interrogatory <em>mesmer </em>will reveal nothing. Runes to prevent being tracked by fae and bloodhound. Runes for the strengthening of the garment, for its imperviousness to weather and sword alike, to keep her warm in winter and cool in summer (that particular rune sequence was one of the first she’d developed, upon her arrival in the South, to stop her from fainting four times a day in the heat of the Summer sun). The second part of the process had involved stitching over the runes a second time with strands of her own copper hair, dipped in her own blood, to bind the various different rune-spells together. And this twice, for both her cloaks to provide her with such protections. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>And tonight, at last, both garments are complete. Tonight, the Winter Solstice, when her people the Winter Fae are at their most powerful, and her gaolers, the Summer Fae, are at their weakest. Her captors are not insensible to this little fact, and so have all but tripled the guard assigned to watch her every move. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>But if Cersei Lannister believes that it is enough to dissuade Sansa from her course - well. What no-one seems to realise is that Sansa is entirely aware of the precariousness of her position. If the physical imprisonment were not indication enough, then the relentless cycle of beatings as well as the information imparted to her whilst eavesdropping on the news brought by various Solitary Fae (faeries either exiled from the Summer or Winter courts or who chose to leave of their own accord, selling their loyalties and talents to the highest bidder) to the Summer Court, have made the point clear enough. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sansa has nothing left to lose. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>She has no value anymore as a hostage; not after her brother Robb the King of Winter had disowned her and left her in her captivity to rot. If she is caught and this escape attempt fails, well, perhaps the beatings will expedite her suffering and kill her. Either way, her torment will be at an end. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>So she stands and binds one cloak with repurposed leather satchel straps around her waist, and the other she drapes around her shoulders, allowing herself to admire the softness of the material before deftly fastening the ties and raising her hood fully over her bright plaited hair. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Decades of residence in this palace have made her intimately aware of where the guard posts on each corridor and passage are, and she knows them to be heavily patrolled. But what her captors have not yet realised is that whilst her inability to shape-shift into a wolf as the rest of her family can, has indeed been repeated far and wide, it does not follow that she has no shape-shifting ability at all. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>And thus, inhaling sharply, her brow furrowed in concentration, Sansa shifts into a tiny red songbird, and hops onto the window ledge, easily fitting through the iron bars, before spreading her wings and dropping into the air in a controlled descent down the side of the tower into the courtyard below. She cocks her head, listening for the tell-tale clanking footfalls of the palace guard before shifting back into her natural, faery form in the shadow of the building. Though her mouth is dry with anxiety and her dress sticks to her back with moisture, she holds her nerve as she carefully but doggedly makes her way through the palace corridors to the gardens where she can wander further and further in and then melt away into the darkness to freedom. Bile rises in her throat every time she spies the crimson and gold livery of the palace guard, nausea roiling in her belly, and an hour later she is beyond the palace gardens, beyond the palace walls in the summer forest, now bare and skeletal, eerie in the white and black of night, but she reaches into a hidden pocket of her dress and takes out a carved wooden horse, small enough to be held safely in her palm. The tiny indents of the runes are just about visible, and Sansa reaches for the pilfered fork (<em>she has not been allowed a knife, not even for eating; all her food was served already cut into small morsels) </em>and gritting her teeth, pricks her forefinger to smear drops of blood in every rune groove, before throwing it to the ground before her and waiting as the shape grows and grows, until what stands before her is a fierce bay stallion. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As the rune-spell uses her own blood, the horse will run without tiring until she herself is slain. She could, of course, fly north in her songbird form, but that would tire her, requiring frequent stops during which she would be vulnerable. This way, she is far less so, and she quickly leaps upon her mount’s back, tangles her hands in the dark mane, and sets her heels gently but firmly to the stallion’s flanks. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>Winter, </em>her blood sings, <em>winter, </em>her soul cries, and she turns her face to the sky, the better to feel the cold solstice moon upon it, revelling in the smooth, cool sensation of the light flooding her, rejuvenating her, giving her body and heart the strength to continue. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>She rides for nigh on an entire moon, avoiding the roads, stopping only to relieve herself and forage for berries to sustain her, drinking water from the fast-flowing streams she comes across, sleeping in the saddle, as it were, trusting her mount to see her safe. The journey sharpens her cheekbones and hollows her eyes, but the bite of hunger she now feels is no different to her loss of appetite in captivity, and thus she endures. The weather turns the further north she goes, and she feels hope in her heart once more, the cold invigorating her. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>She smells the King of Winter’s encampment before she sees or hears it. The rancid odours of dried blood and mud and latrines combined with hunting roasts carried to her by the violent gusting wind make her choke on her tongue, her eyes stinging, and she draws her stallion to a halt whilst still half hidden in the trees as she takes in the sight before her. Tents stretch before her in the valley as far as the eye can see, muddying the snow, pennants flying, soldiers shouting, horses neighing, camp followers plying their trade, and she swallows once, dismounting, rubbing her faithful companion’s nose in thanks before raising her hood over her hair and retrieving the little wooden horse model from her pocket. Repeating the blood ritual, she watches with a heavy heart as the bay stallion disappears and the wooden horse becomes merely a little wooden horse once more. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>She steals her way through the camp, heading towards the centre, using the house pennants on the tents to guide her. She has had a century to imagine this moment, this reunion with her brother who abandoned her to her fate, and now that it is almost upon her she has no idea what to feel or do or say. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Her brother’s tent is easily recognised; shapeshifting guards, two bears and a wolf, sit alert on their haunches at the entrance, the Stark pennant flies overhead, and the tent itself is easily four times the size of those that surround it, and the grey material is proudly embroidered with the direwolf sigil and hemmed with pristine white fur. Holding her breath, feeling strangely queasy, she slips around to the side, where two pieces of the grey cloth overlap to create a narrow, second entrance flap. Shifting again into her songbird form, she takes advantage of a gust of wind to squeeze through the tent flap without the movement of the cloth drawing undue attention, before shifting back to herself. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>She is about to address her brother, who is taller and stronger than she remembers, his face colder and harsher, she is about to lower her hood and reveal herself when she realises what he is doing and her words wither like leaves crumbling to bitter ash upon her tongue. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>This is not my brother, </em>she thinks desperately. <em>This is not Robb. He would never do such a thing.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>But there is no way to explain away the tableau in front of her eyes; it is exactly what it seems. When her father had said to his children that <em>the man who passes the sentence must swing the sword, </em>she had never thought that - she had never realised that her father’s words could be taken in such a way as this. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>There is a naked faery tied to a wooden post, rope rough at his neck and around his wrists, his teeth clacking madly with the cold, his emaciated body black and blue with bruises across his legs and torso, his hair matted with mud and filth to his scalp, red, bleeding streaks across his back, streaks Sansa knows from experience are made with a knotted whip, and Robb stalks around him taunting him with his words and with the choice morsels of roast meat he waves in front of his prisoner’s face before throwing them into the flaming brazier. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>At first Sansa thinks her brother’s prisoner is a captured spy of some sort; she can conceive of no other reason for which the King of Winter would issue threats as <em>do you want me to stick this poker up your arse or would you prefer my soldiers’ cocks again </em>whilst holding the end of said iron poker in the brazier’s flaming coals for good measure, but then Robb Stark continues with the words <em>nothing to say, Lannister? </em>and her heart drops through her chest and to the ground. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I will make you speak, Jaime Lannister!” her brother continues. “Your people killed my father - admit it! Admit it, Jaime Lannister, and all this can come to an end.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But Tywin Lannister’s son only raises his flinty green gaze and spits in the King of Winter’s face. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sansa is terrified by her brother’s rage, and she swallows, trying to find the words to reveal herself to him and stop this torture from going any further, but they stick like stones in her throat. She is dizzy with nausea, silent tears running down her cheeks; she knows precisely how much such a beating hurts, and the wounded, bleak look in Jaime Lannister’s eyes makes her heart seize with agony. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It is like looking in the mirror, and she cannot bear it.  </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Robb, my lover, come back to bed!” another voice calls, a trill of sunlight upon the water and the sound is so shocking that Sansa can only turn in amazement. The faery - no, <em>mortal, </em>she is certainly a mortal, judging from her rounded ears - who is plainly her brother’s mistress and the reason why several of the lords of the Winter Fae had marched their armies home five years before <em>(Cersei had crowed about it to Sansa for months, between beatings)</em>, judging from the sheer opulence of her manner of dress and the seductive nature of her every movement, raises herself from the enormous bed behind an open curtain to the side of the tent and draws him into her embrace, dragging one hand into his hair, and the other down his chest to cup at his crotch, and Sansa flushes, averting her eyes and narrowly avoiding expelling the contents of her stomach upon the ground as her brother succumbs to his mistress’s attentions and falls into bed with her, roughly pulling the gauzy curtain shut. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Driven by some fundamental instinct she sinks to her knees next to Jaime Lannister and, trusting the enchantments of her clothes to keep her safe, slowly extends a gentle hand to brush his unbruised cheek. He stirs, blinking green eyes open in bleary, pained confusion, and Sansa does not realise she has leant forward to whisper into his ear. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I will get you out of here, my lord. I promise, I vow to you, I will get you out of here, I promise. Only hold on a little longer.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He jolts, turning his head in the direction of her voice, and in his unguarded expression she plainly reads his belief that he has gone mad, and in that instant Sansa remembers how desperately she herself had wished for rescue, had wished for respite, had wished for an end to the torment. She had wished so desperately, almost to the point of hallucination. She only knows that when she was held captive, she had wished for one kind word, one kind touch. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>And so, to reassure him <em>(because she knows only too well how cruel false hope can be)</em> she wets her lips and risks continuing, knowing that her brother’s sport with his mistress will prevent her words from being overheard. “I am not my brother, my lord,” she murmurs into his ear, and she hears his breath hitch, and his body still in realisation and surprise. “What he has done to you is…” she trails off, shuddering, before collecting herself, and fiercely repeating her promise. “I will get you out of here, I vow it, my lord.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Why?” he groans, his voice hoarse and rough, almost inaudible with disuse. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>She answers him honestly. “I only know that I cannot stand to see such suffering. Just as I am not my brother, you are not your sister.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The sounds from the other side of the partition rise in pitch and speed, and Sansa abruptly realises that she may not have another chance; that she must act quickly indeed if she wishes to succeed. Standing, she looks around desperately for some implement to cut Jaime Lannister’s bindings, and her gaze falls on the still steaming roast meats and the gleaming silver dagger next to the platter. She snatches it up and makes quick work of the rope bindings around his wrists and neck that tie him firmly to the wooden post. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He falls forwards, slumping to the ground, and she only just catches him, her hood sliding back to reveal her face. The way he looks at her makes her stomach twist with a giddy sort of nervousness. He extends a shaking hand towards her hair, barely touching it. “So beautiful…” he breathes, “I am dreaming…” staring with pained wonder at the wetness on her cheeks, drifting his fingers across her skin, and she exhales at the sudden warmth.  </p>
<p> </p>
<p>She shakes her head. “I promise, you are not.” Sansa fumbles for her other cloak. “Put this on, quickly,” she says, shaking out the material around his frame, apologising when he winces as the material touches the bleeding sores on his back, doing up the ties herself when it becomes apparent that his fingers tremble too violently. She helps him to his feet, taking most of his weight, draping one of his arms across her shoulders and holding him up by the waist. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He staggers, as pliant as a new born lamb as she directs him to the side flap through which she originally entered, the howling gusts of wind being as helpful as they were before, and Sansa inhales sharply, willing herself to concentrate, as this is the time of most danger. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>They must make their way through the camp without being caught, and she knows that with her companion’s injuries it will be slow, but his hand tightens around her shoulder, he grits his teeth and he straightens his spine, and she can only admire his fortitude. She whispers words of encouragement when she can, when there is no chance of being overheard, exhorting him to walk just a little bit further, to the tree line, only to the tree line and then all will be well. He grunts his acknowledgement, his breathing harsh, and Sansa has to push back the sheer terror at the thought of his collapse. It frightens her more than their being caught, and the thought almost stuns her. Shaking her head, she continues leading him through the maze of tents, blocking everything else out. They have only a few rows of tents more, breathing harshly up the gentle slope, when the cry goes up, an angry cacophony of shouts and animal howls.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He tenses at her side, and she hurries to reassure him once more. “They will not find us, my lord. I promise you that they will not, I vow it.” She repeats the pledge again and again, a promise made in sweat and blood and tears. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>His torment must be over.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She will <em>make </em>it so. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Later, she will remember little of their escape; the memories of that long walk and the even longer ride on the bay stallion to safety whirl around in her mind like mist at dawn. When she attempts to calculate, she realises that they spent ten days fleeing north-west to the only place, she knows for certain, they will be safe. Everything blurs in a strange haze of adrenaline and the wind in her face and her horse’s steady, thundering gait, and Jaime’s impressively strong grip around her waist, his face buried in her neck, the warmth of his breath. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>She does remember cleaning his wounds with snow; the only remedy available to them, and his pained cries haunt her nightmares for weeks afterwards. She also remembers the awful clacking of his teeth, and his repeated, plaintive <em>so cold, so cold </em>whimpered into her ear, and her desperate attempts to warm him, painting protection runes with her blood directly onto his skin as a last resort, and it seems to work because his skin gradually loses its frightening grey tinge and his teeth stop chattering. His grip on her, however, does not lessen, and she has never been so terrified in her life. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>She remembers laughing with giddy, hysterical relief as she guides the brave bay stallion to the castle she’d demanded her parents build for her as a child, when she’d spent entire days reading the epics of old, living in an imaginary world of heroes and maidens and magical weapons, wandering the halls with a white winter rose garland upon her head. She’d spent an entire three decades pleading with her parents for it, and it had finally been presented to her as a hundredth-name day gift. Though less than an hour’s ride from the ancient Winter Court at Winterfell, it is a sanctuary in every sense of the word, for Sansa had spent the next century of her life, several days a week each week, until she accompanied her father upon the ill-fated diplomatic trip to the South, experimenting with rune-spells; and as a result the castle had had every protection she could think of engraved into it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Her castle sits deep in the Wolfswood, encircled by great old pines and silent, winding paths. The water in her moat is black and still, patched with blue, treacherous ice, her walls thick and every stone has protective runes chiseled across the surface. There are no banners or flags flying, but winter ivy and white winter roses wind themselves up the towers. In the dead of winter icicles hang from the carven subjects of her fountains, flower petals trapped in the ice like coloured jewels and only with difficulty does the bay stallion keep from faltering upon the slippery flagstones. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The elaboration of the runework for an everlasting log fire in the great hearths of her halls had taken over a decade, but Sansa is glad of the effort as she dismounts, her horse becoming wood once more, and leads Jaime inside to the warmth, barely succeeding at keeping him upright. He is hunched against the cold, weak from his sustained torture and malnourishment, and she knows that it is only his determination and her runework that yet keeps him on his feet and alive. The fires crackle merrily, a welcome counterpart to the silence of her sanctuary, and she guides him to sit upon a comfortable chair by the largest hearth in her hall, shutting the great oak door behind them to insulate them from the winter. The bolts slide across and she knows that now they are protected; nothing can touch them here, not as long as she lives, for her blood is in every stone and bolt of this creation. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Upon the mantlepiece are more carved little figures, and at the touch of a drop of her blood they become servants and soldiers, to protect her and serve her, and she directs the cooks to make up a meal from her stores held under stasis runes, and the manservants to bring out the massive bathing tub to her and Jaime in the hall, to bring water for the bath, the maids to bring towels and a change of clothes. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“We are safe here,” she tells him as they wait for the chance to bathe and eat, safely ensconced by the fire. “Both of us, I vow it.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He dips his head in acknowledgement, looking at her wearily out of the corner of his eye. “I owe you my life,” he replies quietly. “Whatever you would ask of me, you have but to name it and it is yours.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“There is no debt,” she replies firmly. It is the first time they have spoken properly since their horrible first meeting in Robb Stark’s tent, the first exchange beyond <em>I will get you out of here / Eat, please, you must eat </em>and <em>I’m sorry, please forgive me, I know it hurts, I’m sorry. </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Name it,” he returns, equally stubbornly, though he appears like to fall asleep at any moment. They stare at one another, forest green and icy blue, and Sansa’s skin prickles with awareness. “Please.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Then be well,” she replies earnestly, slipping out of her chair to kneel at his feet and cradle his cheeks with her gentle hands. “Fight to live, please.” He shivers at her touch, his breath warm upon her inner wrists, and she fails to fight back the blush that rises when he looks at her with glowing eyes. “Be well, my lord,” she continues eventually, struggling past the tears clogging her throat. <em>Let me look after you, </em>she wants to say, but she does not dare. “Your torment is over; I vow it. My brother cannot hurt you here.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He kisses her knuckles, squeezing her fingers gently. “Then I will be well.” And suddenly she cannot breathe; she cannot remember the last time she was touched so gently. Her head whirls, she is dizzy with she knows not what.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>One of the manservants coughs, gesturing to the bath, indicating its readiness, and they both jump, abruptly taken from their thoughts. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He gestures for her to go first, but she refuses. “Absolutely not. You are my guest, and in much greater need of a bath than I; I am of Winter, not you.” She can see him struggling, weighing chivalry against not gainsaying a lady.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I would not have you neglect yourself for me,” he replies solemnly, eventually, handing her the cloak he wears. She takes it, folding it up onto his vacated chair and turns her back as he sinks with a grateful, broken sigh into the hot water. “You can turn around again, my lady,” he continues, a hint of laughter in his tone, and she does so, dragging her own chair across the flagstones to sit at his side, handing him the cloth and soap. He stares at it in disbelief, his hand trembling, and so she closes her own fingers over his. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Your torment is over, my lord,” she murmurs. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He swallows harshly, squeezing his eyes shut, and so she gently pries the cloth and soap from his shaky grip, dipping both into the water and proceeding to wash first his face, beginning with his forehead, wiping the blood runes and the grime of captivity and escape from his skin. As she dips the cloth again, his hand comes up to grasp her wrist, and the gaze he turns on her is nothing short of eviscerated. “Why?” he insists, his voice breaking. “Why?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Because you are not your sister, and I am not my brother,” she answers quietly. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Then your torment is at an end too, my lady,” he says, and she jolts. His mouth twists in a wry approximation of a smile. “I might be half out of my mind with fever and hunger, but do not think I had not noticed. Did you think I would not recognise the way you walked meant you were beaten too? That in your eyes I am unable to read your starvation and your despair and your loneliness? That just as I was fleeing my captors, so too were you?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She trembles violently, her mouth opening and closing. <em>You are laying me bare, </em>she panics. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“If I must live and be well,” he continues gently, “then so must you, my lady.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She stares at him, startled, uncomprehending, but when he shows no sign of taking his words back the panic recedes and she ducks her head in shy agreement. From then on they are quiet. He does not point out the tremble in her hands as she washes him; she makes no mention of the salt wetting his cheeks. He steadies her when she sways on her feet, she holds out her arms for him to grasp as he attempts to rise. She marks the protruding of his ribs as she dabs them with a salve, writing in runes for healing as she does so to speed the process, but she does not press him to eat more than he is able, knowing that his stomach will have shrunk, and she barely notices as the tub is emptied and then refilled. She helps him dress in a shirt and breeches before wrapping him in furs for warmth, and he helps her with the laces at the back of her dress, and she grimaces in distaste as she spies it on the floor. She has worn the same garment since her own escape over a moon before; and the material is fit to be burnt, so she simply kicks it straight into the flames. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He says nothing when it is her turn to weep as she steps into the steaming heat of her own bath, overwhelmed by the feelings of safety, of warmth, of comfort. With nimble fingers she takes down her hair, and though it is grimy and horrible she shakes her head so her hair falls around her shoulders and down her back, and she sinks below the surface, before sitting up and frantically scrubbing at her skin and hair with the soap and cloth, suddenly desperate to rid herself of the physical remnants of her captivity. She hardly realises she is choking on her sobs, not until his voice jolts her from her single-minded focus.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You will injure yourself if you continue, my lady,” he comments quietly, and she blinks, disorientated, before understanding as he gestures to her forearms that she is in danger of rubbing her skin raw. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I - ” she swallows, unable to speak, unable to find the words. And suddenly she can do nothing except hold his gaze, her ribcage rising and falling too quickly, thinking only that the forest green of his eyes could lure her to her death and that she would not object. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>His fever worsens, and she fights desperately the panic that seems to have become her most constant companion, as she spends every instant by his side, writing every healing rune she knows with her blood and her tears onto his forehead, his lips, his throat, his chest, dribbling broth into his mouth, cleaning his skin of sweat and the stench of terror, piling blanket upon blanket around him as his teeth chatter so violently she fears he may bite off his tongue, her heart wrenching as he pleads for warmth. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>If I must live and be well, then so must you, my lady. </em>His words repeat themselves in her mind, a litany, and it is the only thing that makes her take a spoonful of broth for every two of his. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He sleeps fitfully upon a bed in her Hall, as near to the hearths as possible, and on the third day she lights braziers around him, drawing runes upon the very flagstones to keep the heat inside this protective circle, until she finds it uncomfortably hot, until simply sitting at his bedside and exhorting him to fight, to wake up and live, makes her forehead pearl with sweat, and were it not for the temperature runes sewn into her cloak she would have long since fainted away. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>On the fifth day his skin turns from grey to blue and she perseveres. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>On the eighth he comes closer to consciousness, but instead of a reprieve this only brings further anguish, as he begins to dream, except that Sansa knows that he is not dreaming but reliving his worst memories. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>On the eleventh, in despair, she lays down next to him and takes him in her embrace, whispering words of comfort into his ear as he shudders into her clavicle.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>At dawn on the twelfth day, she wakes to the light streaming through the high windows in dappled shafts, and the calloused hands of a warrior gently tracing the features of her face as she stirs languidly in the furs. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>She blinks sheepishly, looking around in a daze, her eyes falling upon him, admiring the way the morning light burns his hair to the brightest gold, before comprehension crashes through her. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You’re awake!” she cries in astonishment, sitting up, and it is her turn to trace his features with shaking fingers. “My lord, you’re awake!” She laughs giddily, shaking her head in disbelief. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Something warm flickers in his gaze, deepening the colour. “It is all your doing, my lady,” he says, his mouth twitching with what she abruptly realises is a dangerous sort of mischievousness. “It was all you - your voice, your care, your touch, your blood, your tears, your willing me to live.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I want you to live because you want to live, not for you to live simply because I - I <em>demand </em>it of you,” she replies quietly, feelingly, stuttering over the words.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>His smirk becomes fuller, becoming raffish, his voice deepening to something that is almost a growl. “And what if… I wished to live for you, lovely enchantress?” he asks, and her eyes widen. He cannot possibly mean - but she thinks he might just mean what she thinks he means because his gaze turns contemplative, and his thumbs trace shivers into her cheekbones, drifting across her soft skin to sink into her bottom lip, and she gasps. He leans closer to her, murmuring his words against her lips, her jaw, her ear. “If I wished to live for you, my lady, what would you say?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>She whimpers his name, melting into his frame, and suddenly his arm is wrapped tightly around her waist, holding her to him, and his breathing is harsh and sharp against the too-sensitive skin of her neck. “I would… I would…” she begins, shuddering violently with sudden delight as his teeth graze the tender skin below her ear, compulsively bringing her hands up to tangle firmly in his golden hair, and she trembles as he growls his approval. “I would… I would say yes…” the words tumble from her lips instinctively, and she giggles, tightening her grip on his hair, as he curses extensively and creatively in response. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>She feels him tense, his whole body thrumming with the effort of control, as he raises his head to look at her. “You would say yes?” he repeats, the low velvet gravel of his voice making her dizzy, the intensity of his green gaze scorching her, setting a humming, curling heat to her blood. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I would,” she whispers, suddenly shy under the heady pleasure of his scrutiny, of the intensity of his touch, firm and grounding around her waist, yet strong despite his hardships. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>She sees his gaze drop to her mouth as he one more thumbs her bottom lip, gently, searchingly, and she melts, arching bonelessly into him, resting her elbows on his shoulders. His name leaves her lips upon a sigh, plea and permission all at once, and the wicked light in his eyes turns feral, a dark promise, before his lips descend upon hers and proceed to steal her breath and her sanity. His mouth is fierce and skilled, by turns heated and languid by others, and she can only sweetly, earnestly surrender and follow where he leads, giddy with delight as she laughs against his mouth, as he chases and teases and parts her lips with his wicked tongue. He consumes her, possesses her, entirely enthrals her and she is warm and fluid in his arms, tender and light as she returns his affection, glorying in the assured way he holds her.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>His strength returns as days turn into moons, and with it his irrepressible sense of humour, and she soon finds herself constantly breathless, either with laughter or because her lips are more agreeably engaged in the arts of love. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>His devotion to her is absolute, and it would be terrifying to her were it not for the fact that her devotion to him, she has come to realise, is similarly consuming and overwhelming. As he goes through the various forms and drills necessary for combat, more often than not simply stripped to his waist in the heat of her Halls, she resumes her rune work, stitching for him shirts and breeches and surcoats and boots, employing everything she knows to lay every rune spell she can think of upon the clothing, for she vows that he will never again know the cold or such torment again, admiring the play of muscles in his back as she sews. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He watches her avidly, his tender stares lingering upon the dainty movements of her hands, with wide-eyed curiosity as she once more soaks the thread with her blood to sew her devotion and protection of him into his garments. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Her hands begin to linger upon his frame as she takes his measurements, as he watches her with mingled amusement and heated desire.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They sit by the fireside, warmed by the crackling flames, as she plays and sings the songs of old upon her harp, her light voice washing over him like cool water upon a glorious summer’s day, weaving dreams into being, and gradually he hears fade the melancholy loneliness from her voice, replaced with some strand of happiness, as fragile and mysterious as it is elusive. The subtle power of her song washes over him, and he abruptly realises that should she wish it, she has power enough to cause his downfall; he finds the notion that she has chosen instead to bestow upon him her affection something he treasures, something he cannot quite comprehend, but something he has determined he will grasp onto with everything he possesses. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As she plays, he winds strands of her russet hair around his fingers, tangling them in its eloquent fall, and afterwards, when she falls silent as the shadows lengthen and the Halls darken until they are illuminated only by the firelight of the hearths, he tangles her fingers in his, playing, caressing her hands with a tenderness he had forgotten he possessed. She looks at him languidly then, her blue gaze drowsy and hooded as she rests her head against his shoulder. They do not speak, but in this quiet, silent stillness at the waning of the day, such a thing is unnecessary. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>And then, one day, though they have both done their best to forget the outside world, it becomes abundantly clear that the outside world has not forgotten them.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sansa’s Halls are not easy to find; but found they are and the idyll comes to an end. There is a mirror into which she occasionally glances, comforted by its ever-cloudy surface, until one day it is not. She leaps up in shock, motions frantically for Jaime to get out of the mirror’s line of sight, a motion which he executes immediately, bemused. She steps hesitantly towards the frame, seeing shadows swirling beyond the surface, knowing that when she places her warm palm upon it - the glass ripples like water and the fog clears. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Roslin!” Sansa gasps. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Robb’s wife smiles, a melancholy twist to her lips, and the tightly held red-haired infant in her arms wriggles. “Save my daughter, you who are her namesake, sister, <em>please.</em>”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Something cold and heavy slithers into her skin like frozen sunlight and wraps itself around her heart as though to choke the very life from it. “What has happened?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Though the river faery does not move Sansa’s words seem to cut something vital from her, and her skin hollows, suddenly scraped thin over cheekbones and eye sockets. The King of Winter’s wife has aged aeons in the space of a single moment. “My wedding to Robb was unpopular, you know that,” Roslin begins with a shattered strength. “The bannermen, even King Ned himself, not to mention what my <em>dearest </em>husband believes.” Sansa remembers it well; remembers an innocent childhood spent gallivanting around with her brother’s betrothed; and she remembers only too well the whispers - <em>those fucking Freys, forcing the King to such a betrothal, the Lord of the Crossing thinks himself a King - pah! </em>and most damnably of all <em>not Winter enough - </em>that final cruel refrain had incessantly followed them both. Roslin, hopelessly, irrevocably in love with her future husband, and Robb, paying her only the barest courtesies. “And now, because Robb’s bastard by his mortal mistress is male, some lords have taken it in their heads to challenge my daughter’s claim.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“How?” Sansa breathes. “Winter’s bane, <em>how?</em>”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Notwithstanding the fact that Serena looks exactly like you, sister, I have been accused of high treason.” Her voice breaks. “I have been accused of - of adultery -</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“But you’re mad for Robb! Even in the Summer Court they know that! You always have been.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“For all the good love has done me,” Roslin laughs bitterly. “But, oh, my sister, that is not the worst of it - his advisors pour poison into the King of Winter’s ears and I am accused of - of - laying with mine own kin, of laying with mine own brothers - I am to be tried at dusk and I have no hope of being alive by moonrise. Perwyn and Olyvar are already slain.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sansa’s niece chooses this moment of horrifying stillness to wave her fist about and Roslin instantly focuses upon her daughter with the repressed desperation of the condemned, tenderly soothing the child until she settles. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“When I saw Robb in his war-tent; he was not as I remembered him, and I could not bear - ”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sansa sees shocked understanding dawn upon Roslin’s face. “That was you? You freed Jaime Lannister?” There is no malice in the questions, merely incredulity.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“My <em>honourable </em>brother was threatening to rape the heir to the Summer Court with a hot iron poker - what did you expect me to do? Stand by and watch as - no. No. I could not.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Take Serena. Love her as your own daughter. I am not too proud to beg it of you.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Dear sister, there is no need to beg.” Sansa sinks into a deep curtsey, bowing her head in a formal gesture, looking up all the while through blurred eyes at the mirror as the surface ripples and her sister’s hand breaches it like a sword rising from water, bright-shining as the winter sun, and dryly cold when Roslin’s hand traces her features from crown to chin, pressing a sharp nail to Sansa’s bottom lip until blood like claret wells from the wound. The King of Winter’s wife then draws a rune upon her daughter’s forehead in Sansa’s blood, before offering her child through the mirror to Sansa.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The infant’s weight is sturdier than Sansa has imagined - but she has never before beheld the rare, glorious sight that is a faery-child, as the youngest of her people before Serena - the blood rune glowing, and Sansa instinctively presses her lips to the mark, shuddering at the bite of frost. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“It is done, enchantress.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Roslin’s voice is dim and melancholy, and Sansa looks up, startled and pained, from the faery-girl in her arms, her heart aching at the way the infant burrows into her embrace, only to find that the mirror is clouded once more and her sister gone from view. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sansa starts towards it, but sees nothing and hears only vague echoes in her mind. <em>Love her well. Love her as your own. </em>And Sansa’s own heart in response beats an affirmative tattoo. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Dazed, she turns to Jaime, who is blinking at her in perplexed astonishment, swallowing harshly as he takes in the sight of her holding her new daughter, eyes tender and ardent all at once they say too much - </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What now?” he says, seated at her side, one hand drifting over her collarbone, and the other carefully cradling the winter-child’s head as she sleeps securely in Sansa’s lap. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sansa swallows back the bile she wishes to unleash, all the burning, vitriolic resentment that has been simmering against her brother for the past century entire, and strokes her daughter’s soft cheek with a tender, trembling finger. “I keep her safe, I know that.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“We keep her safe,” her lover corrects her quietly, and she looks at him with glimmering eyes. <em>“We </em>keep little Serena safe, and we love her as our own.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“This… changes everything, Jaime,” she says softly, vehemently. “With Roslin…” she shudders. “I wish I could stop it.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sensing her agitation, her lover takes the infant from her. “I know.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What <em>is </em>my brother thinking?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“He isn’t, and that’s the problem.” Jaime’s eyes follow her as she paces in front of him, short, sharp steps ringing upon the flagstones. “War can bring out the best in you or it can bring out the worst in you. He’s letting the glory and the bloodlust go to his head.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“With this… all your father has to do is wait,” she says, her voice flat. “Half of the winter armies marched home when Robb took up with his mistress in the first place, and now… the Winter Court will tear itself apart, war or no war with Summer. Roslin will be avenged and Robb’s mortal bastard will be killed, all in a matter of time. Declaring a natural child and a mortal one at that his heir will be Robb’s undoing. He is deaf and blind to reason, I suspected it already when I saw his treatment of you, and this has only confirmed it. Your disappearance will have reached your father’s ears and made him all the more determined to bring Winter to heel.” She pauses, her brows furrowing, before venturing, “is your father similarly blind to reason? I have never met him.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“My father?” Jaime blinks. “He is ruthless and stern and cruel, but he is not needlessly so. He will listen, I think.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Then we go to him.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You would return to Summer, after all you have endured there?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“For you, for Serena, I would do anything.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>In response, he reaches to grasp her hand, and lifts her wrist to his lips to taste the fluttering of her pulse. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“That is quite a tale,” the King of the Summer Court drawls, his head tilted in consideration. “But not untrue, I think.” He sets down his goblet. “You have brought terms, I take it, my lady?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“More of a strategy, Sire.” Sansa admits.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I am listening.” Tywin Lannister’s gaze strips the flesh from her bones, incongruous with his casual words and posture. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Already the Winter Court is dividing, and factional warfare is only a matter of time. You need do nothing but wait because my brother’s own actions are leading him down the path to ruin. I have blood custody of the true heir to the Winter Court. All I need do is subtly make my presence in the Winter Lands known and the loyalist lords will come to me.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“All true,” Tywin Lannister agrees blandly. “You would proclaim yourself a threat to your brother’s rule?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“No. I would declare myself Regent for my brother’s legitimate heir and daughter.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“And you are willing to treat with me, unlike your brother?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Your terms for this alliance?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Our terms, Father,” Jaime interjects. “Our terms.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“And what terms would satisfy you both, then?” The Summer King drawls.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jaime lifts his chin, declaiming boldly, “I have asked for the hand in marriage of the sister of the King of Winter.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Father considers son carefully. “You would take her to wife?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I would.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“And do you agree to this, my lady? Would you take my son for your lord husband?” Tywin Lannister continues implacably. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“With my whole heart,” she murmurs in reply. “With my whole heart, freely and joyously. Sire, I love him.” Jaime at her side lifts her hand to his lips and her fingers curl as he kisses her palm. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>She can see the elder faery’s shrewd mind at work as he considers them both in the wake of her quiet, fervent declaration and his son’s ardent reciprocation. “Very well,” the King of the Summer Court says eventually. “I agree to your terms, on the condition that you raise your brother’s daughter to work for peace between Summer and Winter.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sansa bows her head solemnly. “You have my word as regent, Sire.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Her suitor is not nearly so restrained. “Thank you, Father,” he exclaims in giddy disbelief. “Thank you.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Would a ceremony in my Halls be acceptable, Sire?” Sansa asks. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“So long as your wedding feast is held in my son’s Halls,” is the wry reply. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I don’t have my own halls, Father.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You do now, Jaime,” The King of the Summer Court smirks. “How do you like the sound of Castamere as a wedding gift?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thoughts? Likes? Dislikes?</p></blockquote></div></div>
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